


Nights and In-betweens

by enthugger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, References to Depression, look enjolras hugs fix almost every problem ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 16:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18056102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthugger/pseuds/enthugger
Summary: And then there are the kind of nights that Grantaire always hides from Joly, when all the pretenses come down and the meaninglessness stops being a joke. He has always hated the taste of sincerity: too bitter on his tongue, with nothing left to mask the burn of self-loathing. When he’s run out of shitty wine and run out of coping mechanisms and the world comes so sharply and viscerally into focus that it makes his head spin. These are the kind of nights that even his friends who intend to make a career out of fixing people can’t fix.It’s one of those nights and he’s outside. He’s come out for a cigarette, he told himself, but he hasn’t lit one yet, is still trying to remember if he locked the flat door behind him. That kind of night.





	Nights and In-betweens

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend with the prompt “Didn’t want you to see this.”

Some days, it feels like he’s being pulled apart at the seams.

Sometimes, Enjolras’s hands are on his stomach and his fingers spread out to graze against his hips and Grantaire feels their path across his body like lines of flame. And sometimes he’s too drunk to stand and he curls himself into a corner of his room and thinks about drowning in a substance thicker than wine, thinks about submerging himself so deeply that it quiets the pounding in his temples.

Sometimes, he laughs so hard he thinks his sides might burst open, those days when he measures hours in the clink of glasses and Bossuet’s hand on his shoulder and the glint of Joly’s smile.

Some days, the seams are strong and wide, too substantial for the Fates’ knives to cut through. Those are the nights when Enjolras smiles at him when they lock eyes across a crowded room and later there are slender fingers slipping through his and soft gasps against his throat and he is, he supposes, the closest he will ever get to happy.

And then there are the kind of nights that Grantaire always hides from Joly, when all the pretenses come down and the meaninglessness stops being a joke. He has always hated the taste of sincerity: too bitter on his tongue, with nothing left to mask the burn of self-loathing. When he’s run out of shitty wine and run out of coping mechanisms and the world comes so sharply and viscerally into focus that it makes his head spin. These are the kind of nights that even his friends who intend to make a career out of fixing people can’t fix.

It’s one of those nights and he’s outside. He’s come out for a cigarette, he told himself, but he hasn’t lit one yet, is still trying to remember if he locked the flat door behind him.

That kind of night.

He balls his hands into fists in the pockets of his hoodie and wanders.

His feet find the way before his brain does, carrying him across a familiar route that he knows he should be avoiding at all costs, that he would never go down if he wasn’t so lost somewhere else, wasn’t being pulled apart so hard that he felt like he was in danger of snapping.

He doesn’t knock on the door when he gets there, feels, now that he’s finally reached a vague destination of somewhere, like he’s expended whatever small burst of energy it was that got him there in the first place. And maybe he’s more drunk than he thought, because he slumps down against the door and lets his head tip back against it.

There’s no reason for him to be here, he knows this. No reason for Enjolras to be home, or even if he is, to let him in. So, he just sits, eyes closed, feeling the chill of the breeze through the thin material of his hoodie. He still hasn’t lit a cigarette.

He doesn’t quite notice the footsteps, doesn’t fully open his eyes until someone’s foot bumps softly against his own, forcing him fully into awareness.

Enjolras is standing in front of him, his keys dangling from one hand. His face is strangely blank, impassive in a way that Grantaire can only assume is annoyance, or outright anger. He doesn’t blame him.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Enjolras asks, after a few beats of uncomfortable silence. 

Grantaire flinches, as if he’s been slapped.

“It’s not on purpose.” He says quietly, staring down at his hands on either side of his legs, balled into fists so tight that his short nails cut into the flesh of his palms. “I just forget sometimes how to…” He trails off. “I didn’t want you to see this.” He says finally, softly, the sincerity of the statement grating on his tongue. Enjolras already knows enough of his flaws, he’s been privy to plenty of them on group nights out or back on those rare occasions when they used to argue openly, shouting across rooms.

He tries to kick his overtired brain into gear, to put his legs underneath him and stand up and leave. It was a mistake to come here, to bother Enjolras with more of his problems when he has a whole world’s to worry about himself.

He doesn’t realize that Enjolras has crouched down next to him until he speaks, his voice quiet and close, “Grantaire.” A hand cups his cheek, a thumb’s gentle caress across his cheekbone wiping away tears he doesn’t realize he’s been crying. “Of course, I want to see you. That’s the point of this.” Enjolras’s fingers tighten into his hair. “That’s the point of being together.”

“I’m sorry.” He turns his face sideways into Enjolras’s palm, pressing a soft, wet kiss to the inside of his wrist. “You deserve better than this.”

“No.”

And he can’t stand it anymore, looking at Enjolras so close to him, the line of his eyebrows pulled together in worry, his hair falling in perfect waves around his shoulders, so he leans forward and presses his forehead into Enjolras’s neck, choking back whatever sort of argument against himself is supposed to come next.

Enjolras wraps around him immediately, his hand moving to rest against the back of Grantaire’s neck, fingers stroking through damp curls. His lips press against the side of Grantaire’s head, other arm tight around his shoulders.

“I want you.” Enjolras is whispering, soft and insistent in his ear, “Every part of you, including this one.” And that’s a lie, Grantaire knows, because no one could ever want this part of anyone. He doesn’t even want himself.

Enjolras feels cool around him, like the evening air, his hands and his neck settling against Grantaire’s too-hot skin. It’s something like comfort, the hand rubbing gently against the back of his head, making him wonder vaguely when the last time he washed his har was, or the last time he shaved. He chokes out a laugh, hitched and muffled in Enjolras’s hair.

Enjolras pulls back slightly, but keeps his hands on him, pushing his hair back, staying close. Grantaire feels a rush of affection.

“I think this is the most dramatic thing I’ve ever done. You must hate this.” He rubs a hand over his face, fingers scratching gently against too many days’ stubble and Enjolras smiles at him, amused but still worried.

“Have you missed how the whole point is that I don’t hate it?” He tilts his head up to kiss Granatire’s temple, soft and light.

“I’m an idiot.” But even as he speaks, Grantaire is leaning back in towards the comfort of him, “I miss almost everything that ever happens. I don’t even notice who I am sometimes.” It’s a joke, but it’s not a joke and he doesn’t know how else to continue but by curling his fingers into the front of Enjolras’s shirt and pulling him into a kiss. It’s a little too hard and a little too desperate to fit the softness of the moment around them, but he’s not sure how to express what he needs to say any other way. He wraps up the need and the gratitude and pushes himself against Enjolras with an intensity that he hasn’t felt in days. It’s something of a relief, to notice how he can feel again.

Enjolras smiles again against his mouth, pulls away slightly to look at him.

“Do you want to come inside?” He asks; the normality of the question seems almost funny.

“No!” Grantaire feigns indignation with what he hopes is a hint of his usual sarcastic tone. “I came here to sit on the ground outside your door and cry.” Enjolras’s arms shift around him, gently maneuvering him up and into a standing position.

“Well, that’s perfect. You can check that off your list and now you can come inside.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“I missed this.” He says, as he leans into Enjolras to stand up fully, and Enjolras pauses with his keys in hand; he seems surprised.

“I missed you too.”

And yes, some days it might feel like he’s being pulled apart at the seams, but some nights end like this, with Enjolras’s arm around his waist and soft whispers of something like love in his ear. That’s really all Grantaire can ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always lovely! This is also on [tumblr](http://williamvapespeare.tumblr.com/post/183335022631/didnt-want-you-to-see-this-enjolrasgrantaire) !


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